As of 11/23/97
TURN 1: The Road Taken
Ysoltre Illmak'r shivered, the sensation drawing him out of a reverie that had lasted pretty much for days. The dried blood caking his white blouse made his skin itch. Strange that he had not noticed it until now. Bleary eyes gazed down at the equally blood-caked cleaver he grasped too tightly in one hand. His stomach growled and heaved, spewing forth nothing only because it was empty, and had been vacant for far too long a period.
"Mountains," he managed to say aloud, his voice little better than a harsh croak. Gone were the dulcet tones normally associated with his profession. Gone was the melodic quality that had brought pleasure to listeners throughout regal courts and taverns aplenty.
"A valley," Ysoltre added, his mind awakening as if from some dream-filled slumber. Had he walked so far? He searched around, trying to find some detail in the mountain valley which stretched out before him. The bard recognized thathe stood in the middle of a road, in actuality little more than a beaten path amidst rough overgrowth and trees, but one which still showed signs of not-infrequent travel.
"One path is as good as another," he remarked, truly not caring as long as the road took him somewhere, anywhere.
Minutes stretched into tens of minutes, then an hour. Ysoltre didn't care, taking solace in the rhythmic cadence of one footfall following another. It was a type of natural musical progression, a consistency of timing and beat that gave meaning and structure to existence. Shadows shifted as he traveled, adding their contribution to the orchestrated cacophony that was the birth, life, and death of a day. Slowly he began to feel again, to care again.
Near dusk, his footfalls ceased. He stood there, riveted in place. The broken husks of what had once been buildings stood before him. Some nameless village, similar in type to many he had visited during the past few years, a smile on his face, a song on his lips. Gone now, just like his life. A short, sharp laugh erupted from Ysoltre as he recognized the poetic justice of the situation.
"Ysoltre Illmak'r: minstrel and talespinner extraordinary, famed far and wide, gentle folk. Let us gather at the tavern and honor those heroes of yore, so that we might learn and be entertained by that which might provide enlightenment, or at least some modicum of merriment."
The bard sighed deeply, then, head bowed, he made his way into what looked to be a wholly abandoned hamlet.
His hunger pangs had become so constant that he had almost completely forgotten about them. Ysoltre hesitantly studied his surroundings, inhaling in deep, exaggerated breaths to stretch his weakened muscles only to rediscover the pain that ached his wrecked body.
The minstrel thought about home, or the lack there of, and about the loss of his love. 'I should return to pay my respects to her and her family.' The madness that had consumed him had eaten his logic away; he had not even attended her funeral. He began to weep, the action leading him to decide it would be better not to think of his beloved wife. She was gone. Yet one more tragedy in a seemingly endless procession of tragic events. He fought back the hurtful memory, trying to concentrate on the problem at hand. It would be some time before he could return home, that much was certain. The Black Circle would tear him apart.
"Where am I?" A good question; a sound question, one that showed he had divested himself of at least a portion of the madness that had driven all thoughts save those of vengeance and survival from him. He approached what looked to have once been a tavern, searching for food and water.
"Hello?" he called out, though he would have been surprised if the effort had been anything but pointless. "I don't suppose I could purchase a bed and food for the evening?" The minstrel smiled at his own humor, misplaced though he knew it was, both in terms of his own continued welfare and the obvious mishap that had befallen what must once have been a place of great livelihood. He frowned suddenly, not liking the sound of his voice. Its melodic tenor qualities - those which had brought such joy in taverns aplenty such as this one - had escaped from lack of water, leaving only a hoarse, raspy pretender in its place.
"What good is a bard who can't sing, and will I ever be able to play my instruments again?" He stared wide-eyed at his blistered hands.
Ysoltre shook off the thoughts, kicking over a ruined table. "Sulking will get me nothing," he called out, voicing his thoughts as if he might exorcise those inner demons in the effort. He walked around searching for something... anything. "At least I will be sheltered for the night."
The minstrel's actions kicked up dust that swirled as if possessed by spirits of the air, causing him to cough loudly. It was yet one more reminder of the dryness that made his tongue cling to his parched palate. The tavern had been long abandoned, that much was obvious, although whether the time period in question was months or years he could not discern.
The half-elf moved to the stairwell, uncertainty about the goal of such a search tickling his mind suddenly. Any foodstuffs would have fallen prey to mold and rot long ago. "Water," he said quietly, as if the thought had somehow just managed to penetrate his awareness. Ysoltre realized that he had been operating mostly on instinct, a dangerous trait, and one not conducive to continued survival.
He stepped onto the stairwell, then paused. A feeling caressed his thoughts, but he was unable to put the sudden sensation into words. Ysoltre stood there for several moments, dark green eyes gazing at his foot. The bard stepped off the stairwell, leaving a smudge mark in the accumulated dust that covered the wooden plank. 'Two smudges, yet I stepped forward with only one foot,' drifted forth his silent thoughts. Ysoltre's bleary-eyed gaze traveled up the wooden stairwell, taking in the tell-tale smudge on each wooden plank.
Ysoltre's stomach churned. He could not determine if the reason was his hunger or the nervous realization that he might not be alone. Was the owner of the footsteps friend or foe? Was he invading somebody's home?
The minstrel gripped the cleaver as he ascended the stairwell, as quietly as possible for one of his skill and physical condition. On the first step, Ysoltre prayed that he would not have to face another fight, as he was in no condition to defend himself. On the second, Ysoltre began to think of what to say to the individual he was following. In the past, his words were golden and very rarely failed him in encounters, but lately he had been acting as one possessed of ill spirits. The third stair gave a quiet squeak as the aged wood felt the minstrel's weight. Ysoltre cursed silently, even as he nervously shifted his weapon from his left hand to the right. On the fourth step, Ysoltre considered what this person would think about his appearance. A man wearing a blood-stained shirt and brandishing an equally blood-caked meat cleaver certainly would not hold well with first impressions.
The remaining steps passed thoughtlessly as Ysoltre practiced looking non-threatening, or at least as docile as possible given his disheveled appearance. 'The last thing I need is to make more enemies,' drifted his thoughts. Ysoltre slipped the cleaver in his belt, behind his back, concealing it from view and continued up the staircase, following the smudges which he took to be footsteps.
Three portals beckoned, one on either side about halfway down the corridor, the final one located directly opposite his current position, at the end of the hallway. None were secured by a closed door, and both smudges and paw prints seemed to indicate travel through all three areas.
"In Dirion's name!" Ysoltre hissed, his exclamation barely more than a whisper as he examined the now doubled trail. The young half-elf studied the beastly tracks and tried to vision what manner of animal could match those prints. "Perhaps a wolf or worse," he mumbled. "Whatever it is, the chances of it being tame are probably nonexistent."
The minstrel's gaze studied the scene intently. "It seemed to have either befriended the owner of the previous tracks or it's dining on his corpse in one of those of rooms." Ysoltre tried to ignore the ramifications of the latter deduction, as it seemed to lead to the possibility that he might be dessert.
He pulled out his cleaver again and proceeded cautiously. "What chance does a mortal man have against an animal that size," Ysoltre considered as he crept along. But the mystery was of the type that had to be uncovered, given that the "thing" might be sharing his shelter for the night.
The minstrel moved furtively to the first portal, his back almost touching the hallway wall as he took deliberate step after deliberate step. He cursed silently, recognizing that each of the first two portals faced opposite each other. To peer around a corner and look into what lay beyond for one would expose him to attack from both within and beyond - his attention drawn away perilously from the opposite direction.
Shifting his weight in a well-balanced fighting stance - he could at least manage that feat in preparation for potential danger - Ysoltre leaned forward and peered around the corner of the first portal. The chamber beyond appeared to be abandoned, although the minstrel saw visible evidence on the floor that the smudges and huge paw prints had entered and departed. A thick layer of dust also covered what few pieces of furniture remained, and a few mangy pelts remained hung on the wall, mounted on wooden backings as if they had once been trophies of some sort. Spider webs traversed the airy waste from one cupboard to the window sill, the intricate, delicate design capturing the dimming light of the coming dusk and making the whole seem a piece of artwork on nature's canvass.
Satisfied - or at least reasonably certain - that no immediate, obvious threat loomed in the first room, Ysoltre shifted tactics. He covered the width of the corridor in two quick strides, then repeated his action at the first portal with the second. The furniture in this room lay smashed and broken, giving little indication as to either its former appearance or purpose. Like the first, it was covered in dust. Like the first, the smudges and huge paw prints were easily viewed. 'Smashed furniture are signs of a struggle,' Ysoltre thought as he examined the room. Although when the struggle had taken place was still a matter of mystery. At any rate, a struggle with what appeared to be a large and probably very fierce beast was not something Ysoltre desired.
"Two down, one to go," the bard mumbled as he forced himself to move toward the end of the hall. Each step brought the minstrel closer to the final portal. He could see clearly that whatever door had once adorned the hinges had been smashed into oblivion, yet as to when the event had occurred there was no sure way to know. A slight gust of breeze caused his longish hair to dance in response, the direction of the air flow seeming to come from whatever lay beyond the third portal. From his current vantage point, it seemed to be yet another chamber. Nor was the breeze the only difference. The smudges seemed to have increased in number, as if caused by many footfalls, while the huge paw prints merged with the somewhat erratic smudges so evident on the dusty floor.
At the entrance to the third and final room, Ysoltre stood and studied the unbalanced smudges and merging of the paw prints. 'They must have had a fight,' the bard thought as his free hand stroked his chin, his brain feverishly trying to solve the mystery. However, he remained stumped, his lack of tracking skills evident. The breeze he felt was so far beyond any hypothesis he could come up with, he decided not to ponder it at all.
Ysoltre weighed all possibilities, cursing the relatively small number of items that he could list mentally, certain that there had to be others. However, his introspective speculation brought another theory to mind. Perhaps it was a lycanthrope. That might explain the unusual size of the paw prints. The thought of a werewolf unsettled the bard, sending a chill crawling up the length of his spine. He had heard rumors of the wolf-man beasts and one particular item of note came to mind, that such creatures might be harmed only by weapons crafted from silver.
'A fight with a werewolf would be futile and suicidal, but turning back would be pointless. If it was a lycanthrope, why hadn't it attacked yet? Even a regular dog could have smelled me coming a long time ago.'
The bard wiped his mind of those types of thoughts, focusing instead on what seemed to be priority needs: He had to discern whether or not the building was safe, he had to find food, and he had to locate a source of water. Fortified with his new-found plan of action and with his knife clutched firmly in his right hand, he proceeded toward what he hoped would not be his final destiny.
The muted illumination of the gathering dusk that had thrown the interior of the building into a sort of oppressive, perpetual gloom seemed to lessen with each step. Ysoltre, with great caution and deliberateness, slipped through the portal, dark green eyes widening at the sight before him. The cause for the increased air flow was readily evident, for half of one wall seemed to have been blown out - literally, for there existed little tell-tale sign of rubble strewn about the floor, which meant that whatever had smashed the gaping hole had started in the chamber and progressed outward.
His eyes searched for signs of paw prints and smudges. They remained, seeming even more intertwined than was evident in the hallway. However, this time there was something new - dried globules of some reddish hue stained the floor, scattered here and there as if by no particular design.
Ysoltre moved to the gaping hole in the wall. Both smudges and paw prints seemed to have moved toward that locale. Evidence of each seemed to end at that point. Had they jumped from the second story? Had the maker of the suspicious footprints been in a struggle for his or her life with what appeared to be some type of horrendous hound-like animal? The minstrel looked out and onto the ground below. There did not appear to be any obvious signs of disturbance.
Examining the drops of the reddish substance, Ysoltre assumed the most obvious and most unwanted conclusion: blood. There must have been a fight, with the loser's body being dragged off. But what could have caused this kind of damage to the wall? 'I probably don't want to find out,' the bard thought, peering down from the second story. 'At any rate, I should make use of what sunlight I have left.'
Ysoltre backed away from the gaping hole, curiosity dueling with the ever-present pangs of thirst and hunger, both of which somehow had reasserted their demands on his body, or perhaps it was just his awareness of their incessant call that had grown, paralleling his new-found favor for cognizant thought over blind instinct.
The minstrel retraced his steps down the hallway, remembering at the last moment to move cautiously past the two portals which faced one another, then speeding up again at the stairwell. 'Outside,' drifted his one overriding thought, 'outside may provide some significant clue as to what happened in the chamber at
the end of the corridor.'
His grip on the cleaver tightened involuntarily as the bard exited the abandoned building. He made his way down what once had been the tavern's front walk, then turned into what would have been an access alley in the hamlet's hey-day. Ysoltre's gaze looked up, seeking the gaping hole, confirmation of which might ensure he would have a better chance of discovering any clue. The bard searched the grounds underneath the broken and smashed upper-story wall. He was no tracker, but if anyone or anything had fallen from above, there appeared to be no sign.
"Beware!" drifted the dulcet tones of what could only be some angelic avatar. It took a moment for Ysoltre to realize that the voice had been born upon the wind, though he could not discern the direction from which it had hailed. Other sounds followed the disembodied call, the muted, rhythmic pounding of horse hooves on packed earth, then the decidedly feminine voice once again, "Dusk shall herald the hound's appearance once again. Scant moments remain 'ere the beast shall loosen daylight's shackles."
"We can barricade ourselves in these ruins," a male counterpart to the angel called forth.
The angel again: "Only the most secure of buildings would succor us, for e'en if the beast be but a rogue, one separated from its pack, still would it be beyond our likely capacity to survive if it found us. Only weapons of surpassing enchantment might do such a creature lasting harm."
A curse slipped forth from the male counterpart. "Which we possess not, and these ruins are anything but secure. It seems as though a stiff wind might topple half of them."
"The stone circle should lie beyond the hamlet, atop the ancient mound of which Bowen the Warder bespoke," the feminine voice replied.
Stricken speechless and paralyzed with awe, Ysoltre listened to the angel and her counterpart. He scanned the area, desperately searching for the source of the voices. He cringed at the mention of 'the hound' and 'the beast.' If a pair of celestial beings had reason to fear such a creature then he had no chance of survival if an encounter occurred.
When the silence had broken the mysterious voices, Ysoltre spoke aloud, "Who are you?" he demanded passively, inspecting the sky. "Please, I need help. Where am I?" So many questions came to the bard's mind, he couldn't ask them all.
Dusk, he remembered from the angel's warning. 'Dusk shall herald the hound's appearance once again.' Ysoltre looked to the west and saw the sun sinking beyond the mountains, its ordained retreat casting a purple and orange hue across the late afternoon sky. It was a beautiful sight, however, night always followed the setting sun and with the night would come the hound. And with the hound would come death.
Panic took a hold of Ysoltre. "The stone circle," he called to the wind, remembering the angel's heedful alert. "Will I be safe there?" he inquired of the sky, searching in every direction for the mound of which she had spoken.
Again the voices called out, seeming to come from the buildings surrounding the minstrel, yet from the street as well, a distortion of sound that seemed to mock the half-elf's ability to pinpoint the true direction of those who spoke.
"There, again," drifted the male tones. "It was a voice, the voice of one who speaks the King's Tongue."
"Perchance a wayfarer, for no miscreant would issue forth his or her position in so brazen a manner," the angel offered, the dulcet tones echoing throughout the abandoned hamlet. "Hear me, wayfarer! These ruins shall not succor thee from the beast, and little time hath we to search these broken and battered remnants! Find the main road and proceed east in haste, if thou wouldst survive this night! The ancient protection thou shalt view 'pon a high hillock!"
A horse neighed loudly, a piercing shriek of a wail. Then, the thumping sound of horse hooves reverberated between the decrepit buildings, as if each equine stride was akin to the loudest crack of thunder.
Ysoltre listened carefully to the voices' instructions. "Thank you," he called out. He wanted to apologize for being rude at first, but he didn't know how much time he had.
Dark green eyes rose to study what he could of the sky, his vision limited by the placement of buildings. Still, it was easy enough to get his bearings and discern which direction was eastward. Ysoltre moved out onto the street, hoping it was the major roadway of which the feminine voice had spoken. Anxious thoughts about the coming dusk and the possible appearance of the hound fueled new energy to his fatigued body. He strode quickly forward, eyes nervously scanning the shadowy recesses of the broken ruins as he passed. It seemed the sun's decline matched his own progress, dropping lower and lower with each step.
Ysoltre had to shift the direction of his travel slightly as it appeared he had not entered upon the main road through the abandoned village, a fact he discovered when he had followed the earthen pathway to the edge of the hamlet and was met only with overgrowth. Minutes lost, he realized, hopefully not to the point where it might prove a measure of how many breaths remained in his current existence. What manner of creature was the hound anyway? The minstrel shuddered involuntarily, his own imagination giving form to his fears.
The village fell behind him as he heeded the angel's advice. "A hill. She said there would be a hill, and a stone circle." The half-elf scanned the horizon anxiously, every nerve afire with anticipation and a certain, nagging sense of foreboding.
More minutes passed, then more still. Darkness claimed the land as the sun dipped wholly beyond the high mountains still visible in the distance. His blood chilled as an unearthly howl split the air. "Far off, thank Dirion," Ysoltre mumbled, his voice trembling despite himself. Onward he strode, the cleaver clutched tightly in his right hand. "Only weapons of surpassing enchantment might harm the creature, that was what she said." The minstrel swallowed nervously, dark green eyes straying momentarily to his weapon, which not only was mundane, but was a killing blade only in the most general sense.
Another howl, this one closer, impossibly closer given that the first had sounded so distant. The nearness of the sound almost caused Ysoltre to cease his constant movement, as if a sudden paralyzation sought to freeze his limbs with mind-numbing weariness. Fear clutched at his heart. Perspiration borne not wholly of the strain of forcing his weakened body forward began to flow freely, adding new stains of exertion to his ripped and ragged blouse.
There, ahead of him, he saw it finally. Huge stone monoliths seemed to edge up over a hill some twenty yards from the road, each block growing in proportion the closer he journeyed to his destination. Fear turned to anticipation, then elation. However, as he moved closer, a new sensation reared within him - caution. Between the large stone blocks, he discerned what looked to be the tell-tale signs of flickering flames. 'A campfire? Somebody resides within the stone circle,' Ysoltre thought as he slowed to catch his breath. The bard risked a furtive glance behind as he jogged. 'Surely whomever resides within will not deny me access to shelter.'
Ysoltre thought of the hound and its hellish howls. "The siren call of death," he mumbled, shivering involuntarily as he realized how much closer the sound had been the second time the beast had bellowed. It was enough incentive to make him sprint again. The minstrel prayed his legs still had enough strength to carry him up the hill atop which sat the stone monoliths.
The flickering flames of the campfire shed welcome illumination within the circle of huge, stone monoliths. Not that Hroknar of the Second Warren physically required the light, he being of the Dervatear race and wholly at home in the total darkness of the deepest Stonelands. However, the fire seemed to salve inner concerns, the dancing flames drawing the Axemaster into a deep reverie that becalmed his spirit.
It was the third such circle of monoliths in which he had rested since leaving the warren and beginning the Test. His first encounter with what were obviously ancient remains had both surprised and delighted him, the initial occurrence having happened two days after he had entered the Innocus Mountains from the more familiar territory of the Fillian Peaks. He had examined the stone monoliths in great detail the first day, for so long a period that darkness had fallen and he had decided to spend the night nestled inside the monolithic bosom. The Dervatear had even tried to decipher the strange runic symbols etched into the face of each stone block, every one of which rose to height twice that of a tall human and five times a man's breadth. Whatever the strange script bespoke remained a mystery to the red-headed warrior. Still, on one block he had managed to locate what seemed to be a reference to another circle of monoliths, a rough map cut into the very stone itself. Lacking any detailed insight as to the true meaning of the Test, he had decided to attempt to assay the veracity of the map, and had set out on a course to find the next grouping of similar ruins.
He journeyed quickly, setting a pace at once steady yet unswerving, as was commonplace for those of his ilk. In two days time he had located the second circle, and was joyous to find yet another map etched into the stonework which showcased three monolithic references - the one in which he stood, the one from which he had departed days earlier, and a third that lay further east.
It had taken only another day's travel to locate the newest structure, though Hroknar had succumbed to shock and bewilderment when he had. The circle had been broken and battered, the huge stone blocks lying in pieces, as if oversized giants had contested the rocky presence and brought the full force of sinew and muscle against it. For hours, the Dervatear searched through smashed rubble and broken bits of larger stonework. In the end, he had found the object of his search - yet another map, with three monolithic references present once again. He had spent the night there, content that yet another of the mysterious objects awaited his discovery. It had been a goal of sorts, he lacking any true knowledge of the Test's actual objective; besides, the mountains were beautiful, a testament to those Celestial Powers who had toiled in divinely inspired harmony to bring earth, forest, and sky together in orchestrated complaisance.
Three more days he journeyed afoot, for the way was rugged and the going laboriously slow. Hroknar's spirit had soared when - from atop some mountain unnamed in Dervatear lore - he had viewed what looked to be not one valley, but a series of interconnected valleys that might allow easier travel to his erstwhile goal.
The abandoned human village through which he had passed later in the day had held little interest for him, though he had practiced caution in case brigands were using the hamlet as a base of operations to waylay unwary travelers. No, it was the stone circle to which he traveled, and Hroknar searched intently for several hours, eventually finding it, as he had its siblings in days past. The Axemaster had gathered wood for the fire and prepared a repast, he had polished and cleaned his splint mail armor, and sharpened the blades of each weapon lovingly, religiously, all actions befitting one of his devotion.
Hroknar's gaze drifted upward from the soothing quality of the flickering flames, more by instinct than conscious thought. Something was amiss. One hand reached out to grasp the haft of his recently honed battle axe, as its mate closed on the shield that lay nearby, drawing it to his body. There - a sound, and another! Something or somebody was racing toward his encampment. Hroknar jumped to his feet, weapon and shield at ready. No time to put on his armor. He shifted his weight into a well-balanced fighting stance.
Into the stone circle stumbled a disheveled figure, a human-elf half-caste to judge by the intruder's features. He wore a ripped and bloody white blouse, torn hose made from some blue-dyed material, and moccasins. In his hand, the half-elf grasped a butcher's cleaver, a little worse for wear and still stained with some reddish residue. Dark green eyes stared widely beneath a tangle of longish dirty blonde hair. The man's face was caked with dirt and sweat. If not for the cut of the ragged clothes, Hroknar would have taken the miscreant for some barbarous wild man.
Ysoltre Illmak'r collapsed with exhaustion, each breath escaping through pursed lips in tortuous, raspy gasps. The minstrel struggled to his knees, and attempted to mouth words, although no coherent sound issued forth.
Seeing the source of the noise that had disturbed his peaceful reflection on the past several days, Hroknar stepped forward, battle axe at the ready. 'No sense taking unwarranted chances.' It was then that his lips curled upwards. A soft, lengthy chuckle filled the air as the Dervatear's eyes fixed on the intruder's choice of weapons. "I pray that you were not intending to use that on me. I have traveled for many days, and do not wish to enter into combat with the first person that I have seen in that time. However, if you wish to press the matter, I could be forced to change my mind."
The half-elf managed to get his feet beneath him and he struggled upward, eventually standing, if a bit unsteadily. "N..nay, I have no wish to..to cross blades with you," Ysoltre managed to blurt out as he tossed the cleaver to the ground, far enough away from him to hopefully show that his words held meaning. "Even if I could match your combat skills, a butcher's tool is not nearly an equal to the mighty axe you wield."
Indeed, the stranger seemed in poor condition to enter into armed conflict. Hroknar lowered his guard slightly, then stepped back toward the fire. The Dervatear gave a low grunt and shrugged. "Unless you wish to remain standing all evening, take a seat. I wish you no harm, and wish to remain unharmed myself. Actually, I was just getting ready to..."
The Dervatear's booming laugh caught Ysoltre off guard, but the mirthful look on his newfound campmate's face salved any immediate concern.
"You'd think that I had been away from people for a longer time than I have to forget to introduce myself," Hroknar said. "Poor manners, that."
The bearded warrior reached out and grasped ahold of his backpack. One hand dove inside, drawing forth a wineskin. "Been saving this," the Dervatear said as he straightened once again and removed the stopper. "Hroknar of the Second Warren, Akmatar Initiate, greets you in the name of the Forger." The Axemaster then lifted the wineskin to his lips, tipped it back, and drank deeply. Purplish liquid overflowed to run out of the corners of his mouth and into his otherwise immaculate, reddish beard. Hroknar sighed deeply as he finished, then, a smile on his face, he offered the wineskin to the newcomer.
Ysoltre accepted the wineskin gratefully, although a slight blush tinged his skin as he noticed the griminess of his hands. "My thanks." The minstrel took a deep breath, then drank from the wineskin even more deeply than his host. One second marched overlong into the next, then another; finally finishing, Ysoltre wiped his mouth with the back of one grimy hand. He blushed again. "Forgive my brazen manners, I have had neither food nor water for several days."
Hroknar's eyes widened at the comment, even as the Dervatear took back the wineskin that the minstrel held forth.
"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir," the bard said. "I am Ysoltre Illmak'r, formerly of Galleyton Hold." He bowed slightly, though he was uncertain as to whether or not the action would cause him to fall over given the exertions he had placed upon his body the past several days. "Please forgive my appearance, the...the past few days have been trying for me."
A hint of sadness and pain could be heard in the half-elf's voice, and seemed to be mirrored in his face momentarily, only to give way to a sudden look of concern. Ysoltre's dark green eyes peered intently at the Dervatear. "You have heard the howling in the distance, have you not?" the minstrel inquired. "I fear that we are being hunted by some savage beast. I was," he paused, as if searching for the correct word, "instructed to come to this stone circle if I wished to remain safe. Do you know of the hound that haunts this abandoned and shattered hamlet?"
The Dervatear returned the wineskin to his backpack, then picked up his battle axe and shield at the half-elf's mention of some type of savage hound. Hroknar rose, earthen eyes scanning the deepening darkness outside the fire-lit stone circle. "I have not heard this howling of which you speak, nor did I travel overlong within the confines of the ruined town. I know nothing of this beast, although, from your description, I would say it is likely a wolf. The fire should keep it at bay, if it is like the wolves of my homeland in Arvandus."
A look of surprise suddenly contorted Hroknar's visage. "You say that you've not eaten in several days? Then, if you feel up to it, take what you need from my pack. I have only dry rations to offer, but they provide sustenance if not a pleasing taste. I will keep watch for this beast while you eat. Also, if it has been days since you ate last, best keep away from the Dervatearan Rose. Imbibe too much and an empty stomach will turn. There is another skin in my pack, one that contains water."
Ysoltre moved to the offered backpack and began to rummage through it. "Again, my thanks. I am in your debt." The minstrel tried to hide it, but his face betrayed him - the wine had hit him hard. One hand went to the half-elf's stomach. "As you say, every rose has its thorns."
Hroknar moved past the half-elf, taking up a defensive position inside the stone circle near where the newcomer had stumbled in. "From where are you coming, and where are you going?" the Dervatear asked. "Myself, I am going east. For several days now, I have been moving from one stone circle to another, this being the third such one that I have found intact. I was about to look for the engraved map to the next when I heard you coming up the hill."
He looked the half-elf over with a critical eye, then offered, "You are welcome to join me in my journey, if you wish. However, since I possess no actual destination in mind, I cannot say where I am going." The warrior paused once again, obviously contemplating some matter he considered important. "If it would make you feel more secure, you can trade your cleaver for one of my hand axes, at least until you are able to arm yourself better. Or, I can lend you my dagger, if you prefer."
Ysoltre looked up from his long overdue repast, seeing the Dervatear hovering near the stone ring's boundary. "Stray not from the circle, friend Hroknar. I fear 'tis not a normal wolf that haunts these lands, rather some type of supernatural beast that roams only at night."
Hroknar backed away from the edge of the circle. "Supernatural? Ah, I have heard of such a beast. My mentor, Trona-H'rar, told me of them, though he had never seen one himself. I believe he said they could not be harmed by the sharpest of weapons, save those that carry an enchantment or those crafted from the purest silver." He shrugged. "Since mine are neither, I shall stay away from the creature."
A wistful smile creased Ysoltre's face. "Angels spoke to me at the village. I could not see them, but their voice were borne upon the wind and issued forth from the very buildings." He paused, a look of embarrassment evident. "The cherubs told me of the hound and how it could not penetrate this ring of stones." Ysoltre stood, his posture more animated. "I saw the beast's paw prints in a ruined tavern. On the morrow, we can make the trek down the hill and investigate them, if you wish."
The Dervatear stepped forward and smacked the half-elf solidly on the latter's shoulder. "That's the spirit, face what you fear! We shall take a look around this hamlet in the morning. Perhaps we might find some supplies there as well, perhaps some clothing for you, a backpack even. The previous inhabitants could not have taken everything when they left. That is, if your 'angels' were right about this circle being a safe place and we are still amongst the living come morning."
Ysoltre shrugged, even as a shroud of sorrow seemed to descend upon him. "I have nowhere to go, not anymore, anyway.." Uneasiness seemed to radiate from the half-elf as he spoke. "I..I come from Galleyton's Hold, as I said. But how I came to be here, I am not quite certain. The past few days are but a groggy memory that my mind seems to want to forget.
The minstrel's eyes drifted past the Dervatear to focus on an imaginary point in the distance. Silence reigned as a single tear cleared a tiny path of grime from his left cheek. He looked away suddenly, one hand rising to wipe away the tear.
Hroknar shifted his weight, suddenly nervous at his companion's display. 'Obviously there is some grievous hurt there.' Aloud, the warrior said, "Why don't you get some rest? I can take the first watch, although I doubt that a watch will be necessary. The other times I have slept within such a circle, I rested peacefully and was not attacked. Perhaps, unknowingly, I have been the beneficiary of the same protection that was spoken of by your 'angels.' If so, then we should come to no harm as long as we keep to the inside of the ring of stones."
Any reply the half-elf may have offered was lost to the sudden cacophony of horse hooves rushing up the hill toward the stone circle and the two wayfarers. The eyes of each widened involuntarily at the sound, which appeared to drift forth from the northern side of the monolithic enclosure. "A horse, or two perhaps, moving at nearly a full gallop," Hroknar remarked absently, his grasp on battle axe and shield tightening in well-trained anticipation.
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